The weekly register. [volume] (Point Pleasant, Va. [W. Va.]) 1862-1909, 1887-07-29


where fancy gives a thousand forms
with but a single plan-the green
and sunny slopes enriched with
daisy,s silver and the cowslip's
gold.
AS in the leafess woods some
tree afiame with life stands like a
rapt poet in the needless crowd, so
stood this man among his fellow
men.
All there is of leaf and bud, of
flower and fruit, of painted insect
life, and all the winged and happy
children of the air that summer
holds beneath her dome. of blue,
were known and loved by him.
He loved the yellow autumn fields,
the golden stacks, the happy homes
Inens the orehard,s bending
boughs, the sumach's fiags of flame,
the naples with transfgured leaves,
the tender yellow of the beech, the
wondrous harmonies of brown and
gold-the vines where hang the
clustered spheres of wit and mirth.
He loved the winter days, the whirl
and drift of snow-all forms of frost
the rage and fury of the storm,
when in the forest, desolate and
stripped, the brave old pine towers
green and grand-a prophecy of
springs. He heard the rhythmic
sound of natures busy strife, the
hum of bees, the songs of birds, the
eagles cry, the murmur of the
streams, the sighs and lamentations
of the winds, and all the voices of
the sea. He loved the shores, the
wales, the crags and cliffs, the city's
busy streets, the interpretive, silent
plain, the solemn splendors of the
night, the silver sea of dawn, and
evenings clouds of molten gold.
The love of nature freed this low
ing man.
One by one the fetters fell; the
gratings disappeared, the sunshine
smote the roof, and on the floors of
stone light streamed from open
doors. He realized the darkness
and despair, the cruelty and hate,
the starless bIackness of the old,
malignant creed. The flower of
pity grew and blossomed in his
heart. The selfish consolation :"
filed his eyes with tears. He saw
that what is called the Christians
hope is that, among the countless
billions wrecked and lost, meager
few perhaps may reach the eternal
shore-a hope that, like the desert
rain, gives neither leaf nor bud-a
hope that gives no joy, no peace, to
any great and loving soul. 1t is the
dust on which the serpent feeds
that coils in heartless breasts.
Day by day the wrath and ven
geance faded from the sky-the
Jewish God grew vague and dim
the threats of torture and eternal
pain grew vulgar and absurd, and
all the miracles seemed strangely
out of place. They clad the infnit
in motley garb, and gave to aureol-
ed heads the cap and bells.
Touched by the pathos of all hu-
man life, knowing the shadows that
fall on every heart-the thorns in
every path, the sighs, the sorrows,
and the tears that lie between a
mothers arms and Deaths embrace
this great and gifted man denoun-
ced, denied, and damned with all
his heart the fanged and frightful
dogma that souls were made to feed
the eternal hunger-ravenous as
famine-of a Gods revenge.
Take out this fearful, fendish,
heartless lie-compared with which
all other lies are true-and the
great arch of orthodox religion
crumbling falls.
To the average man the Christ
ian hell and heaven are only words.
He has no scope of thought. He
lives but in a dim, i'm poverished now.
To him the past is dead-the future
still unborn. He occu pies with
downcast eyes that narrow line of
barren, shifting sand that lies be-
tween the flowing seas. But Genius
knows all time. For him the dead
all live, and breat he, and act their
countless parts again. All human
life is in his now, and every moment
feels the thrill of all to be.
No one can overestimate the
good accomplished by this marvel
GUS, many-sided man. He helped
to slay the heart-devouring mon
ster of the Christian world. He
tried to civilize the church, to hu-
mamie the creeds, to soften pious
breasts of stone, to take the fear
n